The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (13 page)

“It seems to me,” Myron said slowly, “that Kathy was walking in the general direction of the dean’s house.”

“So?”

Myron said nothing.

“She worked for him,” Jake said.

Myron nodded.

“What’s the connection?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s completely innocent,” Myron said. “But you might want to ask him about it. You being so thorough and all.”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m not saying anything. I am merely making an observation.”

Again Jake studied him. Myron looked back coolly. A visit from Jake Courter would probably not crack Dean Gordon, but it should soften him a bit. “Now about that ace in the hole …?”

Jake hesitated. “Kathy Culver inherited money from her grandmother,” he said.

“Twenty-five grand,” Myron added. “All three kids got the same. They’re sitting in a trust account.”

“Not exactly,” Jake said. He stood, hitched his pants up. “You want to know why I said the evidence pointed to Kathy being a runaway?”

Myron nodded.

“The day Kathy Culver vanished, she visited the bank,” Jake continued. “She cleared out her inheritance. Every penny.”

Myron started back toward New York. He flipped on the radio. Wham’s classic hit “Careless Whisper” was playing. George Michael was bemoaning the fact that he would never dance again because “guilty feet have got no rhythm.” Deep, Myron thought. Very deep.

He picked up the car phone and dialed Esperanza.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“You coming back to the office?”

“I’m on my way there now.”

“I wouldn’t make any stops,” she said.

“Why?”

“You have a surprise client waiting for you.”

“Who?”

“Chaz Landreaux.”

“He’s supposed to be hiding in Washington.”

“Well, he’s here. And he looks like shit.”

“Tell him to sit tight. I’m on my way.”

    “It’s like this,” Chaz began. “I want to cancel our contract.”

He paced the office like an expectant father, and he did indeed look like shit. The cocky grin was nowhere to be seen. The swagger was more like a hunch. He kept licking his lips, darting his eyes, bunching and unbunching his fingers.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Myron tried.

“Ain’t no beginning,” Chaz snapped. “I want out. You gonna fight me on it?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I changed my mind, is all. I want to go with Roy O’Connor at TruPro now. They’re big-time. You’re a nice guy, Myron, but you don’t have their connections.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence. More pacing.

“Can I have the contract or what?”

“How did they get to you, Chaz?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. How many times do I have to say it? I don’t want you, okay?” Chaz was on the edge and teetering. “I want TruPro.”

“It’s not that easy,” Myron said.

“You gonna fight me on this?” he asked again.

“They won’t stop with this, Chaz. You’re in over your head. You have to let me help you.”

He stopped. “Help me? You wanna help me? Then give me back my contract. And don’t pretend you give a shit about me. You just want your piece.”

“Do you really believe that?” Myron asked.

He shook his head. “You don’t get it, man. I don’t want you. I want to go with TruPro.”

“I get it. And like I said before, it’s not that easy. These guys got you by the balls. You think you can make them let go by doing what they say. But you can’t. Not for good anyway. Whenever they want something, they’ll just reach back into your pants and give another squeeze. They won’t stop, Chaz. Not until they’ve squeezed you for everything they can.”

“Man, you don’t know shit. I don’t have to explain nothing to you.” He approached the desk, but his eyes looked away. “I want that goddamn contract. I want it now.”

Myron picked up his phone. “Esperanza, bring me Chaz’s contract. The original.” He hung up. “It’ll just be a moment.”

Chaz said nothing.

“You don’t know what you’re mixed up in,” Myron continued.

“Fuck off, man. I know exactly what I’m mixed up in.”

“Let me help, Chaz.”

He snorted. “What can you do?”

“I can stop them.”

“Oh yeah, I can tell. You done a great job so far.”

“What happened?”

But he just shook his head.

Esperanza came in and handed Myron the contract.
Myron in turn handed it to Chaz. He grabbed it and hurried to the door.

“Sorry, Myron. But this is business.”

“You can’t beat them, Chaz. Not on your own. They’ll suck you dry.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“Just stay the fuck out. It ain’t your business no more.”

He took off without a backward glance. When he was gone, Win opened the door between the conference room and Myron’s office. “Interesting conversation,” Win said.

Myron nodded, thinking.

“We’ve lost a client,” Win said. “Too bad.”

“It’s not that simple, Win.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” Win replied steadily. “It’s just that simple. He dumped you for another agency. As he so eloquently put it, ‘It ain’t your business no more.’ ”

“Chaz is being pressured.”

“And you offered to help him. He refused.”

“He’s a scared kid.”

“He’s an adult who makes his own decisions. One of which was to tell you to fuck off.”

Myron looked up. “You know what they’ll do to him.”

“It’s a world of free will, Myron. Landreaux chose to take the money in college. And he chose to go back to them now.”

“Will you follow him?”

“Pardon?”

“Follow Chaz. See where he takes those contracts.”

“You complicate the simple, Myron. Just let it be.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Win nodded. “I guess I do.” He thought a moment. “I’ll do it for the sake of our business,” he said. “For the added revenue. If we get Landreaux back in our stable, it will be very profitable. You may enjoy playing superhero, but as far as I’m concerned, this is no moral crusade. I am doing this for the money. That is the only reason. The money.”

Myron nodded. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Fine. As long as we are clear on that point. And I want you to take this.”

Win handed him a Smith & Wesson .38 and a shoulder holster. Myron put it on. Carrying a gun was incredibly uncomfortable, yet the weight felt good, like a reminder of some kind of protective bubble. Sometimes the sensation made you feel heady, invincible even.

That was usually when you got popped.

“Be extra careful,” Win said. “The word has hit the streets.”

“What word?”

“A price has officially been put on your head,” Win said, as if it were amusing cocktail conversation. “Thirty thousand dollars to the man who takes you out.”

Myron made a face. “Thirty thousand? Hell, I used to be a fed. I should be worth sixty, seventy grand minimum.”

“Bad economy. Times are tough.”

“I’m being discounted?”

“Appears so, yes.”

Myron opened the revolver and checked the bullets. Just as he suspected. Win had loaded the gun with dumdums—bullets with cross-hatched tips to expose the lead. Wasn’t enough to be using hollow-point Winchester Silvertip bullets. Win had to doctor them for that extra little crunch. “These are illegal.”

Win put his hand against his chest. “My. Oh. My. How. Awful.”

“And unnecessary.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“They are effective.”

“I don’t want them,” Myron said.

“Fine” He handed Myron uncut bullets. “Be a wimp.”

Jessica listened to the message on the answering machine.

“Hi, Jessica. It’s Nancy Serat. I’m so sorry to hear about your father. He was such a nice man. I can’t believe it. He was here the morning he died. So weird. He was so nostalgic that day. He told me all about that favorite yellow sweater he gave Kathy. Such a sweet story. I wish I could have been more helpful. I just can’t believe—well, I’m rambling, sorry. I do that when I’m nervous Anyway I’ll be out until ten o’clock tonight. You can come by then or give me a call. Bye.”

Jessica rewound the message and played it back. Then a third time. Nancy Serat had seen her father on the morning of his murder.

Another coincidence?

She thought not.

Myron called his mother. “I won’t be home for a few days.”

“What?”

“I’m going to stay with Win.”

“In the city?”

“Yes.”

“New York City?”

“No, Mom. Kuwait City.”

“Don’t be such a wise guy with your mother, save it for your friends,” she said. “So why are you staying in the city?”

Hmm. Should he tell her the truth?
Because, Mom, a mobster has a contract out on my head and I don’t want to put you and Dad in danger
. Nah. Might make her worry. “I’m going to be working late the next few nights.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful, Myron. Don’t walk around alone at night.”

Esperanza opened the door. “Urgent call on line three,” she said, loud enough for Myron’s mother to hear.

“Mom, I gotta go. Urgent call.”

“Call us.”

“I will.” He hung up and looked up at Esperanza. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Is there anyone on the phone?”

She nodded. “Timmy Simpson again. I tried to handle it, but he says his problem needs your particular expertise.”

Timmy Simpson was a rookie shortstop for the Red Sox. A major-league pain in the ass.

“Hi, Timmy.”

“Hey, Myron, I’ve been waiting here two goddamn hours for your call.”

“I was out. What’s the problem?”

“I’m here in Toronto, okay, at the Hilton. And this hotel’s got no hot water.”

Myron waited. Then he said, “Did I hear you correctly, Timmy? Did you say—”

“Unfuckinbelievable, ain’t it?” Timmy shouted. “I go in the shower, right, wait five minutes, then ten minutes. The water’s fucking freezing, Myron. Ice cold. So finally I call down to the front desk, right? Some pissant manager tells me they’re having some kind of plumbing problem. Plumbing problem, Myron, like I’m staying in a fuckin’ trailer park or something. So I say, when’s it going to be fixed? He gives me this whole long spiel how he don’t know. Can you believe this shit?”

No, Myron thought. “Timmy, why exactly are you calling me?”

“Jesus Christ, Myron, I’m a pro, right? And I’m stuck in this hellhole with no hot water. I mean, isn’t there something in my contract about that?”

“A hot water clause, perhaps?” Myron tried.

“Or something. I mean, come on. Where do they get off? I need a shower before a game. A
hot
shower. Is that too much to expect? I mean, what am I going to do?”

Stick your head in the toilet and flush, Myron thought, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “I’ll see what I can do, Timmy.”

“Talk to the hotel manager, Myron. Make him understand the importance.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Myron said, “those orphans in Eastern Europe are a minor annoyance in comparison to this. But if the hot water doesn’t come back
on soon, check into another hotel. We’ll send the bill to the Red Sox.”

“Good idea. Thanks, Myron.”

Click.

Myron stared at the phone. Unbelievable. He leaned back and wondered how to handle his three big problems: Chaz Landreaux’s sudden departure, Kathy Culver’s possible re-emergence, and the Toronto Hilton’s plumbing. He decided to forgo the last. Only so much one man can do.

Problem 1: Chaz Landreaux was climbing into bed with Frank Ache. There was only one way out of that. Big brother Herman.

Myron picked up the phone and dialed. He still knew the number by heart. It was picked up on the first ring. “Clancy’s Tavern.”

“It’s Myron Bolitar. I’d like to see Herman.”

“Hold on.” Five minutes passed before the voice came back on. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

Click. No need to wait for an answer. Whatever time Herman Ache agreed to see you, you were free.

Problem 2: Kathy Culver.
Nips
magazine had been mailed from a campus box. It had been mailed not only to Christian Steele but also to Dean Harrison Gordon. Why? Myron knew that Kathy had worked for the dean. Was there more to her job than just filing? An affair, perhaps? And what about the dean’s lovely wife? Did she wear underwear?

But Myron was digressing.

The catalyst of this whole thing was the ad in
Nips.
Gary Grady claimed he had nothing to do with it. Maybe. Maybe not. But either way the picture had to go through Fred Nickler. Good ol’ Freddy was at the center of this.

Myron looked up the number and dialed.

“HDP. May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Fred Nickler.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

“Please hold.”

A minute passed. Then Fred Nickler came on. “Hello?”

“Mr. Nickler, this is Myron Bolitar.”

“Yes, Myron. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to come by and ask you a few more questions about the ad.”

“I’m afraid I’m quite busy right now, Myron. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? Maybe we can set something up.”

Silence.

“Myron? You there?”

“Do you know who took that picture, Mr. Nickler?”

“Of course not.”

“Your friend Jerry denies any knowledge of it.”

“Myron, please. You’re a man of the world. What did you expect him to say?”

“He says he had nothing to do with putting that picture in the ad.”

“Well, that’s quite impossible. He was the advertiser. He submitted the photograph.”

“Then you have a copy of the photo?”

Pause. “It has to be in the file somewhere.”

“Maybe you can pull it out, and I’ll come pick it up.”

“Listen, Myron, I hate to be rude, but I’m really busy right now. It will just be the same photograph you already saw.”

“Kathy’s picture was only in
Nips
,” Myron said.

“Pardon me?”

“Her picture. It wasn’t in any of your other magazines. Only
Nips
.”

Pause. “So?” But his voice was suddenly tottery.

“So the same ad was in all six magazines. The same exact page with the same exact pictures. Except for one small change in
Nips
. Someone had changed just one photograph in the bottom row. Someone had switched pictures for just that one magazine and not the others. Why?”

Fred Nickler coughed. “I really don’t know, Myron. Tell you what: I’ll check on it and let you know. Gotta zillion calls waiting. Gotta run. Bye.”

Another click.

Myron sat back. Fred Nickler was starting to panic.

With a shaking hand Fred Nickler dialed the number. After three rings the phone was picked up.

“County police.”

Fred cleared his throat. “Paul Duncan, please.”